


Nine Months From Sunday

by Peter_Yellowhammer



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Conspiracy, Contextual Toilet Humor, Crying, Guilt, Human Error, Innuendo, Introspection, Irrationality, M/M, Manipulation, Masturbation, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Profanity, Racism, Self-Doubt, Toulon-era, misinterpretation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-13
Updated: 2013-10-24
Packaged: 2017-12-23 07:55:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 19,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/923818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Peter_Yellowhammer/pseuds/Peter_Yellowhammer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[No, this is not mpreg. Happy to relieve/sorry to disappoint you.]</p><p>Three months into his career as a guard, Javert visits Jean Valjean in the middle of the night. But for what? And what could this mean for the future?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Knock Knock

 

 

"Did you check on his family in Faverolles?"

"I did, I did! But I left soon afterward. Too much hen-clucking and all that."

"You speak of the family in Faverolles? Tell me how they look...I'm very curious."

"Blue!"

"That's what I thought."

"Today is Sunday, so you checked on them...Tuesday?"

"No, I checked on them the day before."

"Ah, that explains the smell."

"But hold on, I thought you knew that from before--"

*CLANG CLANG CLANG*

"BE QUIET! YOU WORK TOMORROW, SO SLEEP TONIGHT!"

* * *

Jean Valjean laid haphazardly on the plank that was his bed. That's it. End of story.

Nothing else happened, nothing ever did. When they weren't working or eating, they were languishing in the cells, like clockwork. Today was the day that they didn't have to work. Nothing else mattered, so he let the priest's voice drone and trudged back to his plank like the rest. Now he stared into the void beyond the matter containing him, like he always did. Sunday was very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very boring.

But it was better than Monday through Saturday, so the holy man was tolerated.

"How dare he."

*Thud*

Valjean lost count of which one that was. A cluster of the inmates around him had made a stupid ritual of reacting (only toward convicts, when the guards were out of earshot) to random actions occurring in the cells, only for this day of the week. The accusation, followed by fists falling softly against the stone floor. He faintly heard someone sneeze, so he supposed that was the action of choice for this minute. He sighed.

"How dare he," came a different voice, pointed in his direction.

*Thud*

All of them could drown. That would make it easier for him to sleep at night.

Sleep...

Some time later, Jean Valjean awoke to two soft knocks against his cell door. Knocks? He did not like those knocks; they resonated against the rhythm of the prison, and that was never good. Yes, he bitterly reflected, as hideous as the prison was, change upon said prison was worse. Who knew what was to come in this moment? He ignored the stiffness in his back from sleeping irregularly and shuffled in his chains to the window near the top of the door. It was called a window, but it was a gap that let the stench of defecation waft into and out of his quarters, so 'window' was a kind way to ignore this quirk of convicthood.

He looked out into the void and felt the unforgettable atmosphere of consciousness smothered by sleep. Nighttime, hopefully.

A guard stood on the other side of the door. The young Gypsy guard, arrived some forgotten time ago. He looked troubled, and that was outrageously undeserved. But Jean Valjean remembered, in that he never could forget, to let the guard speak instead of speaking himself.

"Drop that glare."

He dropped his head. The guard was whispering.

"Prisoner 24...something, I forget. I have come to apologize to you."

He jerked his head up. He knew he was not glaring, because the voice of the guard from Cloud Cuckooland had decided to render him incapable of rage, sadness, or any lucid emotion. His heart, if indeed it could still be called that, was stolen in one word, leaving a hollow in its place.

"...Sorry."

Jean Valjean blinked. He felt rage returning, building for the possibility of an insult, but then:

"I, ah..." The guard shuffled on his feet. One of the guards actually shuffled out of nerves. Valjean forgot that he had feet. "Ahem. I have been hearing your fellow convicts' murmurs of your family in Faverolles, as well as your laments." Valjean was too scared to change his expression. "Initially, I thought nothing of them, but then I contrasted your mentionings with theirs and found a troubling pattern. Troubling for me, that is."

Valjean tilted his head like a confused dog. But he felt like a disembodied chest that was suspended in barely acidic water, or perhaps like a torso that was possessed by a ghost that could not decide whether to be warm or like a typical ghost: nonexistent. Who was this guard? And why would a guard notice the other convicts bullying him?

"They sounded conspiratorial for a minute or so, and you sounded despondent soon after, like clockwork. You have conspired with other prisoners before, and cleverly at that; subtle changes in your sobs and their gossip could have constituted a code. And some of my fellow guards didn't react to you or them at all, even making a point of not doing it. Now, I'm not accusing you of conspiracy this time, that's been ruled out already." Valjean nodded helplessly. "But I knew that corrupt guards and convicts have traded messages before. I decided that the matter of your family in Faverolles needed investigation, to rule out the possibility of an underground ring of criminal activity." Valjean could almost hear the tagline "of some sort", because the guard nearly said it by the sudden glance toward the filthy floor of the Bagne.

_Tell me how they are. Tell me. Stop this and tell me if they are okay!_

"My superiors thought I was paranoid and overly eager to please, since I've only been here for three months." Why is this man telling so much detail? Was it really all necessary? He didn't give two shits if the guard was paranoid, as long as he heard the news! "But my mentor decided to humor me and sent a request for an interrogation over there, before doing anything here."

Interrogation. Valjean knew he was glaring now, if only to keep himself from reaching out and strangling the scrawny neck that convulsed with each swallow of saliva. But the guard did not correct him.

"They found nothing."

He sighed in relief - then again, of course they found nothing, Jeanne wasn't like that - but he was not satisfied in truth. Jeanne had been pestered by the police, and probably not for the first time. A thief for a brother...why was bread capable of destroying human livelihood? Who let this item gain such horrible power?

The State, that was who. Perhaps bread was the State's mistress, handed off from the Crown to the Republic like a garden hoe from farmer to farmer. He did not share this joke with the guard.

"I have come to apologize for doubting your laments, prisoner. You wished to know if they were well, and it has been proven that nothing else was at work. You were honest."

Valjean knew that he should have been indignant, silently demanding that his honesty be recognized as a bare minimum of human decency. But it was only a memory of decency, long since eroded in the Bagne's malaise. His chest swelled with warmth at the admittance instead, reveling in the novelty.

"Are they well?" He wasn't even anxious about asking anymore.

"Yes."

Jean Valjean was overcome with weakness, his strength sapped by a delirious smile and the sheer disbelief of this conversation. He could finally rest in peace! The guard said yes! No word before that one had sounded so musical, so divine. But the vagueness of the word restored his urgency; he needed more.

"How well?"

The guard rolled his eyes. Please! thought both of them for different reasons.

"Your sister has found support in four of her neighbors, and all six of her children are in fair enough health."

Jean Valjean was overcome with weakness.

"Is this true?!" His voice was barely audible.

"I am not a liar." The tone was of indignance and a touch of contempt.

_My sister had seven children._ His throat was no longer under his command, and so his comment fell down to his stomach.

"I have taken long enough. I...I apologize for doubting your honesty concerning your family. Sleep."

The young guard walked away, toward where the rest of them slept. The void had returned, and presence of mind came to Valjean with it. How ridiculous, all of it! Prison had created another illusion for him, one as cruel as its mother and twice as bizarre. Jean Valjean decided to escape this nightmare of a prank by the way he came into it: sleeping on a plank.


	2. Shit Happens

 

"Javert apologized! In the middle of the night!"

"Who?"

"The gyp guard."

"Oh. Maybe he realized he forgot to swindle somebody!"

*Thwack, Thwack*

Javert silenced the gossipers by clubbing them, particularly the one that spoke the fourth line. Invasive snark, while building a naval ship of all things! If they wanted to move their lips and tongues, then they could recite the dirge like the rest of them. Uniformity is key to establishing orderly labor, and the lack of uniformity had caused this mess in the first place.

_Half-gyp, if you would._ The laborers were back in his command, and so his comment died behind his tongue.

He wished that he could say: "That is the last time I will ever listen to gossip", for his own sake. But he would not have learned what he did if he didn't listen. Yes, it was paranoid and perhaps overeager the first time, maybe a by-product of wanting to make good on Sieur Thierry's recommendation. But what if it weren't? He would never put it past this lot to scheme something abroad by whatever means, especially if some fringe benefit were to manifest here, out of sight of the ones that kept them apart from the sanctity of society. Not to mention, a few of his 'colleagues' were one legal deviation away from losing their positions and ending up on the other side of the bars (or at least out of a job): all that was needed was someone to report the deviance. He was right to investigate, if not to be so haphazard upon it and thus irritating the deputy adjutant.

An irritating sensation of slime oozing down his torso vexed him all through that apology, and the residue still clung to him today. Apologizing to a convict...of all the mistakes to make, it had to be one that necessitated such an embarrassment.

The bright side of the misadventure was that Javert had more insight into the lunacy of which the Bagne's convicts partook. Making up codes and implications on a sobbing inmate's random exclamations, clearly the culmination of months of boredom. It had become so regular that some of the guards simply stopped noticing it. He knew better now. If anyone else had a 'plea' for the guards, then he would look for the signs of said boredom before vexing anyone about his suspicions. The problem was the execution, not the idea, because the idea was in servitude to his duty.

Duty...

Javert started walking across the dry-dock over to the prisoner for which he had amended his mistake. 24601, he remembered now, not that it mattered. Even from the profile view, he could see that glare. That glare bothered him before, but now it bothered him for a different reason: one that refused to be tangible or even describable! This convict was giving him a headache. But as long as the Cric did the work and didn't complain, then headaches could be ignored.

As the brute came into closer view, he thought of the faces made behind the window. The man was confused, anxious, angry, relieved...mostly confused. He supposed the long explanation was to blame, but if so, then it didn't matter. An officer of the law needed to present a complete case, and Javert needed practice. That, and his mentor stressed often how an officer needed to put aside any sentiment for the sake of justice. He mischaracterized someone, convicthood aside, and impartiality demanded he set right to this. This was for his own sake if anything, so the convict could be confused all he wanted. In fact, why was he even dwelling on the matter?

Javert made eye contact with Jean le Cric, and the latter's bestial glare instantaneously disappeared. A meek fear seemed to take its place, even as he held a board against the shipframe. Excellent! A fine face, and that made this easy for him.

But this man had never made that face before. Had he?

"Come. You, take his place," he directed at the nearest neighbor. Now the organization of labor was symmetrical: two for each side of a column of boards to be fixed upon the frame.

The prisoner balked a little, but he obeyed. Even now, it felt queer to see any emotion aside from savagery or disgusting sobbing. Wait...no, the sobbing wasn't disgusting. It was honest, he had established that. His head throbbed. He needed to move on from that incident and behave like a model guard. The Cric needed to help set one of the masts.

The prisoner's aid made it painless. Absolutely obnoxious strength.

Barely a second after this task, the Deputy Adjutant...what was his name? He learned so many names so quickly, and he hardly had to use them...The plain-looking man waved for him to come up from the dock. Javert obeyed. Once arrived, Javert puzzled as his superior stuck out a hand, toward the cudgel on his right hip.

"You're on cleaning duty for a week. Starting now."

Javert was overcome with memories. The same condescending tone of 'It was only a matter of time before you showed your true nature', as always...but the circumstances were new. He had gotten past being punished for no reason! Why was he being punished, now of all times, here of all places?!

"Monsieur?!"

"First you chat with the prisoners, and now you let them hesitate when you give them orders? You need to watch the others and realize your purpose here again."

After containing his knee-jerk shame, presence of mind returned to him. Javert was quiet last night. No one should have known. And in any case:

"It's not against any rule to talk with them."

"True. However," rebutted the superior, "it is against our rules to set a poor example. They will start questioning your authority. And what I'm doing has done enough damage already. Look, he's staring at you--GET BACK TO WORK!"

Instinctually, Javert turned his head to look behind him. He barely caught the Cric hurriedly ducking, and getting clubbed, before resuming the task of hefting lumber to be cut into more boards. Why wasn't he doing that before? The guard watching him previously had grown careless.

That man was staring at him...

Sulking, no doubt.

His superior was correct. Javert handed his cudgel to his superior and accepted his punishment without another word. Reading lessons would be put off again, but it couldn't be helped. He hid his reddening face from the dregs of humanity below.

* * *

Six days later, Javert picked up the last filth bucket for that night and carried it away from its user. Cleaning duty was a kind way to say 'pick up the convicts' shit and dump it in the sea'. He wanted to literally clean them, both from the smell he endured and wanting to subjugate his lazy attitude all the more. He thought he had smelled the worst of it, living next to a broken sewer opening as a homeless boy, but he was swiftly corrected. What a diet, what a result.

"You forgot mine again."

Javert halted and turned to face the Cric's cell door. The low voice, normally hateful and gravelly, was now calm and collected, as if addressing an arithmetic error. The slime was starting to chafe.

"You keep doing that. Is everything okay?"

There it was. Casual approaches, questioning authority, just like his superior foretold. His relationship with this prisoner was ruined. He would whip the Cric to eradicate this, but he had no precedented cause to do so. Whipping was for exceptional misbehavior, not for asking a question of concern (never mind what made the prisoner choose this casualty of all others). If anything, convicts wanting to know if guards were well was socially correct behavior, never mind if it would persist outside the prison walls. But this demon was still undermining him. This was his own damn fault, and he would bear the consequences for the rest of his guardhood.

...Who cared why he kept forgetting? As long as he got it before he retired for the night, all was well.

"Watch your tone." It was better than saying nothing and letting this wordlessly slide. Wasn't it? Yes, surely it was.

The prisoner said nothing.

Javert reached his free hand up to the window and motioned for the bucket. After a moment, the offending item was presented and seamlessly collected. Javert turned to leave when:

"Thank you."

Javert felt his mind warp.

This was not a response a convict gave to a guard, certainly not of his own free will (what a droll way to put it). 'Thank you' was not casual in this context, nor did it possess any other clear quality from that solemn voice. It had no right to exist in this institution: a thankless job for a thankless rabble. So why was it uttered? What could have motivated this, in the twilight of yet another Sunday to die grieflessly with the others? And most significantly:

"What for?"

"Last week, I forgot to say thank you. For everything you did."

Last week? Ah, he forgot: Sunday marks the new week for Christians, not just a day off for those not picking up buckets of excrement. But this changed nothing.

"I shouldn't even ask, but what exactly do you mean? I did nothing but my duty."

A convict one of the opposite cells snickered. Javert wished he still had his cudgel.

"You know what I mean," insisted the queer prisoner. "What else could I mean? 'Thank you for taking away my bucket'?"

No. This had to stop, before he let this tingling in his chest cloud his brain permanently. Javert had failed with this prisoner, and he needed to distance himself. One of his colleagues could discipline him, and he would handle those that knew of this encounter and the one before it. He could make this work. But he had to stifle what was right in front of him. A quick retort of scorn should do the trick.

"Thanks for not having diarrhea."

That was not a quick retort of scorn.

Javert surrendered and fled the scene, keeping the buckets below his waist. He pretended that the Cric and his neighbor were not desperately trying to keep from laughing at him. When he emptied and returned the buckets, he still pretended this was true. In the morning, he would request that he be assigned to a different cell block.

On Monday morning, the request was denied because: "You need to keep them in line, or none of them will obey you in any block. Stop moping and get your shit together."

Javert wrinkled his nose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing about the story, but just a personal note, cuz I don't know where else to put it...I usually don't comment or 'kudos' other stories because then it means that I have to do that for EVERY story, and I just don't have enough mental energy/articulation/control over my anxiety to do that. So if you wrote a valvert fic, just assume that I adore it. I adore the pairing, and I adore writers, so that makes for double adoration.
> 
> Just so that's out there.


	3. Whipped

Jean Valjean sneezed.

He braced himself for a cudgel to hit below his shoulder blades, as usual, and his expectations were met. The turquoise uniforms apparently made it impossible to distinguish sounds, forcing the guards to strike at any random interruption of the dirge. With that out of the way, he continued bearing the flag pole to be mounted upon the central mast of the naval ship, at which point he would help the others (read: do most of the work) to push the mast to stand upright and secure. The pole had no flag yet, and he found this oddly comforting. Perhaps that was because he didn't want any more reason for the rabble to be staring at him.

He felt a second sneeze build, but he held it back. He saw dozens of eyes around him shift slightly. Yes, guard and convict alike were watching him like a troupe performer, about to reveal strength that only magic could provide. Nothing was unusual about this for anyone, not since whenever he had arrived. His face even adopted the same pull of muscles for a glare- the only expression he had for labor anymore - without him trying. This was all routine.

But after he inserted the pole and started pushing the mast upward, he spotted the guard named Javert looking away from the scene and clubbing the gawking prisoners around him. He faintly remembered that lot: murderers, not worth his pity, or so he was told. Javert was not looking, deliberately not looking, it seemed. He liked that. It was worth asking why this guard wasn't doing it, but he still liked it.

He needed to steal Javert.

A guard who apologizes, for an offense that other guards would just laugh at? And doesn't even see a 'thank you' as necessary? A boy that hears a man openly weeping and actually ponders why, instead of the normal neglect? One that used words before using force, when it came to this prisoner in particular? A phantom of that proportion was too valuable to not bind into a being of flesh. He had already talked to his cell neighbors about keeping their conversations a secret - "Are you kidding? It's the most fun we've had in years! We'll keep mum this time, no worries." - not wanting Javert to be punished because of him and thus drive him away. Any other mishap now could push the boy away forever.

Javert finally looked at him. Valjean smiled as the mast was completely set. Javert did not.

He needed a plan. He needed to beguile the queer guard, to convince him of his need to escape, and then he would have the perfect ally. He would escape for good this time, with Javert at the head of the guards' chase to lead them off course. So he had to also bolster his reputation enough for the others to let him do that. That was simple enough: just obey the boy more than the others. Failing that, he could start a riot and take Javert hostage with escape as the terms of release...but he didn't want to degrade him. No, this guard needed to be molded into a hero. He had to forgive him for being a guard, for both their sakes.

How he would ever do that was an excellent question.

This question became especially troublesome when he heard the guard next to him yelp, bouncing on one foot while holding the other in his hands, after which a large hand got a stranglehold on his smock and dragged him to the rack. He had lost the ability to sob at the injustice or even shudder at the sight of the whip. He couldn't even make sense of the shouting off in the distance, not when his poor wrists were clamped to this wooden monstrosity. Instead, he looked toward the one shot at happiness he had, the sight of which was obstructed by the rack, and pretended that his gaze could burn through stone.

* * *

Later that night, he sat up on his plank, waiting for the raw and broken skin to soothe itself enough to get to sleep. He found that an upright posture helped numb the pain for some reason, so he sat in this fashion as three soft knocks on his door pierced the void. Knocks meant Javert!

He almost started to get up, but Javert opened the door. A small bottle of some white cream rested in the left hand.

"Earlier today," whispered Javert, "why didn't you explain that you didn't step on the guard's foot?"

What? Oh, goodness, Javert was naive. But then again...naive was good. Valjean could expose the truth, and that may be just enough. Then again, that was too optimistic for a fellow he barely knew.

"They would never listen to what I had to say."

"But you didn't even try. The perspective was bad for the guards that punished you. I saw the prisoner that actually stepped on his foot, and I couldn't convince anyone of it. He got away with it...if you had spoken up, then at least some reasonable doubt would be there, and I could have defended you."

Valjean felt an instant collision of embarrassment and indignance. But the skirmish was quieted at the dim sight of Javert's face, utterly confused. The boy truly didn't understand. As eloquent as the boy was - admittedly, it sounded forced, as if he had only just learned the words he used - he had no concept of what had happened. Naive.

"If I had spoken up, then they would have whipped me even harder." That cream...that wasn't...no, he was just hoping against hope.

"...Maybe if you didn't glare at them all the time." Javert mumbled this statement. So he was _unsure_ of what he said. As for glaring, even if Valjean wanted to stop, he couldn't control it by this point.

Heh. Stepped on his foot, served him right. A little justice made the days pass by quicker.

Javert was walking over to his plank. Javert sat down on the plank...behind him. Valjean couldn't see what Javert was doing on the plank anymore. He instinctually tensed.

"Hold still."

Valjean did not move a muscle. He didn't want to turn his shoulders anyway, or else the bruises--

"...!!!"

Jean Valjean underwent a moment of intense self-realization. He had become capable of many things in his incarceration. He could lift boulders and wooden structures with ease, while others needed support for the same task. He was invaluable for hauling ships into dry-docks for repair, if there wasn't enough water to float them inside. And he wielded this power without any support or encouragement from anybody. Nobody relied on him, per se. He was free to hate everyone involved, and by the saints he did, hate was the only armor he had that never rusted. Finally, some nights, he let this power and hatred fall away to let his husk of a soul try and fail to repair itself, leaving him a blubbering mess that wanted to protect his abandoned family by the power of hopes and dreams. He became the demon they believed him to be, partly by his own will, and this was the worst of it all in these moments of despair. But tonight...

It couldn't be. Reality had been murdered, that was the only explanation. But that hand under his smock...

"J-Javert?!"

"Quiet! I have mixed feelings about this already!"

"..."

Tonight, a guard he had known for all of nine days had coated his fingers in a warm salve and was timidly, softly spreading it on his back. Out of nowhere. Completely unlike anything he had experienced in his prison, and certainly unlike a guard. Something precious that had been robbed of him and where hatred had taken its place, something he had forgotten he craved more than fresh water and palateable food, in a matter of seconds, was restored to him. This was actually happening. To him. After five years...

Medicine. Special attention. _Human touch._

This boy was made to be stolen.

"This should ease...erm, I am doing this to compensate you for the injustice brought upon you and nothing else."

Injustice...Jean Valjean was being touched by a boy that fought for justice, even if the actions were too far yet from the ideal. Maybe hopes and dreams had power yet.

_Javert...please let this be who you really are. If you're not just setting me up for a prank, I could fall in love with you. I would do it. No mindless sodomy just to pass the time. No holding out for a woman once I get out because I'm 'supposed' to. No celibacy for the sake of hermitage. Just you and me, outside these walls I want to crush with my bare hands, treating each other like human beings. I could learn to be human all over again, to live with this for the rest of my life._

"Ugh...I'm actually doing this."

...Ah, there it was. Of course there was something 'off' about all this. _Of course there was!_ He wanted to let everything go, to weep for the miracle that was granted to him. He wanted to fall in love with his future savior right now. But the boy always said something strange and disoriented him.

Then again...pranksters didn't say things like this!

N-Now Javert was using his palm as well, it hurt and it felt so good...the massage suddenly became slower, almost lethargic. The void in his stomach he had accepted as permanent was filling with the sweetest wine.

"I ruined myself with you." The way his voice dropped to a croak made Valjean shudder at how quickly blood was rushing to his crotch. He wanted to make that bizarre, disembodied statement laden with multiple meanings.

_If only_ Javert had ruined himself with Valjean. A skinny young man, nice face, proud posture, honest heart, piercing blue eyes. If he started eating better, then Valjean was sure a fine rump would join the list of perks. Not to mention, the boy hadn't learned how to disguise his endowment for some reason. His parents must have been gifted, and the guards must have been teasing him by not making him aware of this.

"I would never have gotten into this if I just did my job like everyone else." The boy was unraveling...whether that was good or bad was unclear, and Valjean was too entranced by the warmth on his back to make any decision against letting it happen. "I don't regret doing what I did, but I started noticing all these other things, and it's driving me crazy. I'm rambling, but...this place is inconsistent. I need to either find a way to sort it out or just set rights to what I can quietly."

"I vote 'quietly'," Valjean said without thinking. But that was his vote; no excessive attention-drawing was allowed in the plan. But tonight's adventure was an exception.

Javert sighed, and Valjean felt his own chest depress in sympathy. He didn't know quite what the problem was, not yet, but the mere idea of this boy in distress was starting to affect him. Javert needed to be in a good mood, for too many reasons.

"You say whatever you want to me, don't you? Well, since you're the leader, maybe I should take that as an acceptable loss. Maybe I can still make this work, just not perfectly."

_Huh?_

"Leader?"

Javert started spreading the ointment lower on his back. Valjean shivered. That hand was only two inches away from...!

"The other convicts look up to you. Or rather, they see you as the most powerful. If you do something out of the ordinary, everyone notices. You're the convict leader."

_...How, wait, WHAT? What...who told you anything like that?! Javert, you...oh, never mind, it changes nothing._

"You have no idea what you're talking about...uh...could you...?"

"Speak clearly, for heaven's sake."

"...Could you shift a little to the left?"

Javert hesitated, and then: "Why would I do that? There's nothing there."

"W-Well, you don't know that, it's dark in here...and I really need it there." Lying wasn't terrible when he got a free massage out of it.

"Whiner. I'm doing this for justice, not for your every little whim."

Valjean bristled at the word. 'Whiner', of all the...! How could something so heartless...!

Javert was a guard. No matter how insane this became, he was still one of them. Valjean had to keep his defenses strong, no matter how warm his belly was or how much ache he would start to feel in his chest. He had to ultimately make this escape attempt on his own, if Javert never changed. This gesture was just part of...wait a minute.

"Why are you rubbing this on my back? I could have done it by myself."

Javert froze. After a horribly awkward length of time, Valjean heard him stand up and stiffly walk over to the door, let himself out, and lock it. Bootsteps were the last he heard of Javert that night.

Well, so much for that...

On the opposite side of the cells, he heard a gruff baritone voice by way of a man clearing his throat. Javert's voice was just as deep, but clearer. Hopefully he hadn't heard the last of it tonight.

"You should be nicer to your girlfriend," said the voice. "She's too shy to rut in public, and you scared her off."

The void quickly and impartially swallowed the tones of that hidden man like the tones of any other, as if the content of them made absolutely no difference in the world.

"I wondered why I don't talk with other inmates. Now I know."

"You should do it more! It's not often a guard will take a convict into his palm. I'd like to hear how you did it."

"Good night."

"I wouldn't rub my seed on my back myself, but it's your date. Makes for a funny story, though!"

Valjean rolled onto his side and let the salve do its work. Happily, for the next time he was whipped, he had a way to deal with it now. Javert left the bottle in the cell, right where he was going to rest his head. Oh, what the hell. He dipped his fingers into it and stroked his poor, throbbing cock with the soothing balm.

"How dare he," he said as a joke to himself.

*Thud*

* * *

Jean Valjean couldn't sleep that night. After the pleasant warmth of orgasm left him, the inevitable depression followed. His thoughts turned inward again.

_Six. Not seven, but six._


	4. Ebb and Flow

 

Javert counted the francs he had left again. That salve was too damned expensive. He went to get it back (Valjean seemed disappointed, but whatever), deciding to stretch that little bottle for all it was worth. But he could stretch his soap through the week if kept his clothes away from the sea spray, so that incident would pass and fade into a distant...

Javert buried his face in his hands, inadvertently feeling the residual slime of the bottle's contents. Distractions, distractions...he didn't need distractions before everything became so convoluted.

Doctors! If you tried to haggle with them, they push other treatments on you. If you tried to convice them of their dedication to public health and healing undeserved wounds, they made it about some psychological defect on the part of the buyer. Doctors would stall until they got their money, with the one in this maddening prison being particularly patient. Javert was stingy by necessity...but he had no choice here.

Jean Valjean the Thief, the Crier, the Strongman, the Enigma. The leader of the second half of the prison. Javert knew that gangs of criminals formed dynamics: those dynamics had to be manipulated, occasionally, to expose them to the authorities and end their unfounded mania. But it was a dishonest connection that was formed in those cases. That prisoner drew attention to himself as a looming threat while simultaneously pleading for what was proven to be an honest desire to...learn of the life he had left behind. Javert couldn't claim to understand that desire, but it was clearly there, and no other explanation held water.

He had no agency! This prisoner possessed an alien quality to him which belonged to no one else, and he remained the star attraction for this spectacle of bondage that Javert himself still struggled to avoid. If he were to surrender and try to please the convict unconditionally, then he would gradually lose respect until he eventually lost his job to someone better. Then he would return not even to the noble job of informant but to the limbo of freelance errand boy, because the reputation of convict-sympathizer would make him untrustworthy to the police. For the other end, if he were to surrender and punish the convict like the other guards, _without clear cause_ , then how could he look upon his reflection in the bowl of drinking water beside him and call himself an officer of the law? They were working for the State as their punishment already, so whipping convicts that behaved was not part of the deal.

At any rate, punishing him for the sake of obedience alone would probably make the others less obedient to Javert...? If he solidified his reputation as punishing for no clear cause, then they would resent the sudden change and become unruly...? Agh, what an unteneable position to hold!

Javert couldn't imagine confessing this mess of a job he was doing (well, technically he had done nothing wrong) to his mentor, especially when that conflicted with reading lessons. What made it worse was that reading lessons would never teach him the answer, even if the knowledge did make him a policeman one day.

He wasn't a policeman. Policemen did not act like this. And it was becoming dubious whether he would ever wear the uniform.

His hand was still warm. It was amazing how those muscles of obnoxious strength arranged themselves so compactly and firmly, pushing back on his fingers without any goading on the part of their caretaker. Even stranger, when the tension mysteriously left, Valjean's back was, of all things, slightly pliable. His chest was still hot. Jean Valjean was amazing...and Javert wasn't sure how much more of it he could stand. But he had no choice.

He walked outside and relieved his tension as quietly as he could. The salve truly was pleasant. The marine life wouldn't mind a splash of semen, would it? He had no idea. Like for everything else.

Sleep.

* * *

The following two weeks lacked the substance of familiarity for Javert, although the events in this period of time were, to put it glibly, manageable.

Valj-- the Cric began to only barely obey the other guards, just enough to avoid punishment, while his own orders were met with a smile and gusto. No matter the task, Javert always received a more eager response, even if the guard addressing him stood _in front_ of the task in question. Piercing eyes began to bore into Javert's skin, as if exposing his soul to be set aflame at the first kiss of air upon it, while the prisoner managed to exhaust himself for one guard's attention. He had tolerated harsh appraisals before, but never for making someone work especially hard. Valjean was angling to get whipped for poor discipline, and Javert was under the threat of losing face before all of his colleagues and even the convicts.

But nothing happened. Two weeks were passing, and the naval ship was being completed, without a single whip or cudgel across the prisoner's skin. Javert was lauded by Thierry for getting the Cric to work especially hard, even though "how you managed to do it remains a mystery." Javert had to manage a lie to him for the very first time, even though it was true that "serving justice is to set order, and the prisoner at least faintly recognizes this." He imagined his fellow guards, upon being told of the Adjutant Guard's high opinion, abstained from asserting subjugation in order to save face themselves. The deputy (whatever his name was, something starting with 'F') seemed to have a difficult time watching Javert merely stand by Valjean and have the ship work go faster for it.

By one perspective, it was glorious. Other convicts seemed bewildered by their leader behaving this way, and so they were less rebellious. In turn, other guards had no reason to whip any prisoners, justly or unjustly. And as a result of both these facts, Javert could do his job without having to stare down his mentor in the demand for justice that would never come.

By another perspective, Javert was being scrutinized more closely than ever before, meaning any one mistake for any reason would have repercussions. This, unlike everything else, was familiar to him...but familiarity provided no comfort or certainty this time.

Javert walked across the hallways of the prison, down from the high walls of the dry-dock, and back and forth in his personal quarters as if in a dream. A relationship of, dare he say it, trust had formed, and no power could tell him how long that would last. It was as if a convict, of all people, had forgotten that Javert was a guard. Even keeping watch in front of the man's cell became awkward, as if he were supposed to engage the man as a rule. One night in these weeks in particular:

"Javert...!"

The voice was broken and choked by tears. Again.

"Please...to me. Come to me."

Javert had plenty of reasons not to "come" to him. Then again, if he were to maintain this trust for the sake of his job...if that was even a safe decision...at the very least, the matter deserved investigation. Javert would inquire as to why the man was sobbing. Again.

"What is it?"

"...That's all. Thank you."

_What...? Oh God, he just wanted me to pay attention to him. I told him to back off, and he just toys with me in return._

"Go to sleep _now_."

"Yes, monsieur...ugh..."

_That sniffling will not work with me._

"Mmmmngh..."

_...I, ah...I really need to stop doing this._

Javert had trouble sleeping that night.

Sunday on the second week gave him respite from the man. The lack of shuffling chains and tearful voices and blush-inducing grins upon his mind perhaps cleared his mind, and he appreciated the surreal scenario better:

He could continue to be a failed guard. Valjean was undeniably obeying him, and Thierry approved, for however long it would all last. Even with all the madness, four months of custodianship were now under his belt. And for some bizarre reason, no prisoners were whispering of the 'gyp guard' chatting with a convict in the night, and so the other guards were forced to mind their own business. He was safe, for now.


	5. Tethered

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter features unconventional pier building. I am not an expert in this. If you wish to rip me a new asshole on the topic, please use lube, as I am a virgin to that experience (｡-_-｡)
> 
> If not, then please enjoy!

Wednesday morning, in the middle of November, saw Javert, the chain gang, and the rest of the guards visiting the fellow port city of Marseille to provide assistance. Thierry attributed the opportunity as inspiration by the Revolution for brotherhood between cities, as well as his boastful correspondence of the increased labor output/discipline of the convicts in recent weeks. But the real reason was patently clear once they arrived: a few of their piers fell into permanent disrepair after a harsh storm, and the city (that is to say, the State) needed new ones desperately, quickly, and _cheaply._

For a chain gang to build piers was unusual, but both this city and the city of Toulon were not convinced of any significant difficulty for the galley slaves. The best summary of that judgment came in the statement: "They learned how to build ships, so they can learn how to dock them." Not to mention, a chain gang working somewhere in the city helped to dissuade would-be criminals. And reviving the stable revenue source for Marseille meant lower crime in and of itself, so Javert understood the necessity, despite how new the exercise was for all involved.

Marseille's ports were not adjacent to a prison, and the divine smell welcomely graced their nostrils. Sea salt and human sweat, but that was it. Everyone was clearly enjoying the change of scenery, although the fact that work had been halted from the high tide may have been more the root cause, which drew Javert's attention to the peculiar ecosystem whose inhabitants labored to drive wood into the submerged sand.

Droves of beast-men were unshackled for efficiency (while surrounded by gendarmes, guards, and the sea for supervision) yet trudging as if they were still bound, moving automatically to their next task while, visually, gravitating to their strongest member for guidance, producing a singular atmosphere. Defiance. This defiance had to be regularly subdued, hence the need for guards. But then Valjean came into view, and the one lucid realization Javert had about the events of the last month came into view as well: these were convicts, not criminals. Javert was neither. When they entered this institution, they had adapted to a new role. At first, he attributed their dull movements, their cacophonic shrieks and glossaries to the inevitable purgatory of criminals.

He knew that was not incorrect...

But the leader of the beasts stepped into the limelight, and the definition of prisonhood transformed, in just the few days it took to receive the investigation report and the minute it took for M. Thierry to read him the words. Javert could read these words on his own now, thanks to lessons covering the copy he was given as a memento of his paranoia. This prisoner was teaching him how to read. A convict could not be purely equivalent to a criminal, if something that surreal could take place on the part of just one. All his possible ideas for why this would be only served to twist his insides from confusion...

_Do your job_ , he was forced to assure himself. _Just do your job. Leave the philosophy to the lawmakers._

It was too far gone for him to try and subdue the prisoner, wasn't it? Was it even appropriate to ask that question anymore? His head ached, and the sea spray dispersed in the air wasn't helping. It seemed all the more that Javert's only option was to use this bizarre relationship to his advantage. It was undeniable that the befuddlingly honest Valjean obeyed Javert without needing force, and as long as it stayed that way, then perhaps it made more sense to make a point of guiding the leader this way. The others would see the brute as subservient and respect Javert's authority. The King of Beasts had been tamed...?

He learned that the word for this egregious stalling was 'speculation', and it was a guilty passtime that nearly made him miss the moment that would define the rest of his life.

"GET IN THERE!" That superior was yelling again...Felix? Or was it Francois? The man never said it to Javert in particular, so all the names he had learned eventually pushed that one beyond his memory. That sort of disorganization never happened before he started working here...Javert walked toward the scene.

Valjean did not move. The whip lashed a deep cut across his right cheek, making him flinch. Javert saw the shackles still on the brute: they could not even get him to obey without Javert! No matter how much Valjean listened to him, every convict had to respond to every guard. He marched toward the scene to assist in the discipline.

"WE'LL SHOVE YOU IN THERE TO DROWN IF YOU DON'T MOVE IT!"

...Well, that was unnecessary.

Javert was close enough to see Valjean stoically move his lips: "I can't swim."

Ah...so that was why. That _would_ pose a problem!

With the urgency of the project, they couldn't wait to install the posts at low tide anymore; they had to start work now. It was a good way to get prisoners killed if they weren't careful, even considering the guards were wise enough to remove the shackles for the sake of adjusting their footing as needed. Since only so many prisoners could swim, most of them had to stand in the shallows to heft the pilings over to the ones that would dive to shove them into the marked areas. Any slipped feet on Valjean's part would leave him drawn into the current and therefore helpless to get back to shore, with how heavy he was and his lack of swimming skill. In fact, this project would fall past the deadline if the workforce couldn't compensate for the lack of Valjean's strength. Javert had arrived next to Valjean with this assessment at the front of his mind.

"THIS IS YOUR FAULT!"

Javert saw Felix-Francois glaring directly at him. How was this his fault? Discipline had nothing to do with this.

"I don't remember having to teach this prisoner to swim," he answered honestly.

"HE'LL LEARN IN THE WATER!" The man was transcendently irate, in that it transcended into complete cognitive bankruptcy, so profound that he did not notice how he contradicted himself. "THAT'S HOW IT'S DONE! But he won't obey me 'cuz you're too soft on him! You see what happens?!"

Javert turned to look at Valjean. No glare was returned, and amazingly, Javert did not expect one. He expected to expect one, but both expectations were unmet. The face Valjean made instead...

Enough. This was taking too long.

"I will fix this. Give me two minutes." He had cut himself short without thinking, so he had to run up to the Marseille police squad overseeing their labor (and watching for runners). This was absolutely ridiculous. Guards could squabble about their rights to shove convicts to their watery deaths all they wanted, but they were dutybound to erect these piers before Sunday. No, this needed a fast and dirty solution. Javert ran up to the least haughty-looking officer and pulled some francs from his pocket.

"I need an extremely generous length of rope. Immediately."

The officer gawked a little, but as his superior glared at him, Javert saw the boy snatch the money and run off to wherever Marseille stored its rope. Two minutes or so later, he returned with exactly what Javert asked, and a little more. Nice and thick, and he could smell the treatment to keep it from rotting in the seawater.

"You're worth every franc."

Javert ran back with the rope to see Francois-Felix giving a steely glare. He avoided looking at Valjean, lest he see that haunting gaze of...he didn't know what.

"Thirteen seconds. You owe me thirteen seconds, Javert."

No clock was in sight, so that could only have been a random number.

"Understood," Javert answered without looking at him, as he was too busy undoing the shackles and snaking the rope around Valjean's waist. Make a simple loop, tie it snugly. Then another loop for security, to be threaded through the first. Form a double square knot on the man's right hip and choke the slack out of the entire...

Javert was putting Valjean in rope bondage.

He looked to the prisoner's face, and it seemed said prisoner was blushing as much as he was. Well, it couldn't be helped. They were on a tight schedule.

"He could break out of that," complained Felicois. "Those gendarmes are the only reason he hasn't run away or tried to kill you."

"..."

Javert looked to the chain gang, passing the pilings from bank to shallow to destination, and saw that more than a few of them were watching him. He looked to his superior, and saw that the man had no intention of looking away. He looked to the police squad and registered their faces all pointed in his direction. He had the limelight in this moment. Everyone was waiting to see what he would do.

Valjean looked scared. He hated that look. A brute that could snap him in half like a twig if he wanted to right now was frightened, and it was Javert's fault. Enough! He couldn't let any of this continue. If he couldn't corral the prisoners like a model guard, then he would corral them like Javert. After all, Valjean had made no attempt to resist.

"He won't do either," Javert declared. "He will head as far as he can into the sea to help move the pilings faster. If a wave pulls him into the undertow, then we will pull him back." The swimming prisoners learned from Toulon's waters, and so they knew how to avoid an undertow. But Valjean had unsteady feet in water, so this was the only way it would work.

"We?", defied Francelix.

"Yes, we," answered Javert simply. "He is not a light man, and I will need help if he loses his footing. Go on, now!" Valjean slowly turned to head into the shallows while Javert tied the other end of the rope to one of the many rocks on the beach. Just in case.

"You are going to pull him out? YOU?!"

"Yes, I am. Hopefully I won't have to, but I will if I must."

"...Javert." The guard's tone turned grave and calmly enraged. "You're supposed to be a guard. What are you trying to say with this gesture?"

Javert's blood ran cold. He had only met this guard when he started working for the prison...right? Yes, it was just a coincidence. But of all the barbs to thrust forward, and at a time like this!

_How dare he!_

*THUD*

"KEEP THOSE PILINGS IN ORDER!" The convicts by the pile of pilings sluggishly moved to pile the newest piling that fell too quickly upon the pile of pilings.

Never mind that callous accusation. He was a guard now, and...and he needed to make himself useful, even if it wasn't in an orthodox manner. Yes! Javert was committed, and he had to sell his decision.

"This is a demonstration of trust. This prisoner trusts me, and so he'll do whatever I say, even risk drowning. Now, it would be silly to reward such trust by killing him, so I will pull him to safety if need be." He heard the man snort at the word 'reward'. Whatever. This convict had special needs, and the State was practical enough to accommodate them in return for good labor. Felix would come to appreciate this, and maybe Francois would as well.

"You...argh, never mind how wrong you are! You and who else?! If you're trying to say that I'm going to help, you're stupidly mistaken." Javert was surprised at how much calmer the guard suddenly became. Perhaps his superior remembered how critical this project was as well. Or maybe...if this guard somehow knew about that whole mess...

No. Javert had done well; there was no need for that. And he had better things to do than stand idle while his superior refused to help.

Javert looked to the convicts who brought over, and were now preparing, the pilings to be positioned in the sand. All of them non-swimmers, a few of them were reasonably strong.

"You three, by the right side of the wood!" Javert pointed to their right, as opposed to his right. "You have a new job, get over here!"

The convicts begrudgingly padded over to him and intuitively formed a line behind him to grab the rope. He loved it when the beasts were well-trained. He stepped forward to stand at the farthest point the tide reached, and his assistants followed suit.

"We're ready, Valjean! Get to work!"

But the prisoner did not get to work in that instant. For some reason, the man turned and presented wide, startled eyes. The man look like a beast in truth, cowed into submission by mere words. But why? Which one made him so shocked? Javert motioned for him to move forward, and Valjean shakily waded up to his waist into the sea.

The work of the assembly line of convicts, passing the pilings from the shallows to the few swimmers that were waiting to drive them where they needed to go, was instantly bolstered by Valjean effortlessly moving them over the heads of those right next to him. The time difference was small, but it would add up with each piling. Even though the convict couldn't go deep enough in the sea to drive them, just having him help seemed to make the others work harder as well. Just as Javert thought: their leader was diverting their attention, and now he was directing it. The swimmers were working with the ebb and flow to avoid getting swept away. All was well.

Everything was fine.


	6. Expectation is a Science

Javert would not lie to himself by saying he didn't see it coming. The sea, any sea, was unpredictable at times, and his history with it taught him very well to look for certain types of waves. But he was confident that everything was under control: he had Valjean tied to a rock, and a few convicts of respectable strength were ready in case of an emergency. Everything was just fine.

He would reflect on this later: that was why he did not react immediately when the wave he saw lurching toward the work site revealed itself as far greater than his complacent perception deemed it. Momentous and ferocious, although not very tall...until it finally reached the shore and unfurled its true volume toward the sky. Javert believed that everything was just fine, up until the moment it crashed upon the slaves with enough force to stagger.

Javert dumbly (but not stupidly) took the whole scene in at once. The guards he could see instantly froze, with some meandering forward without organization, only to move back. None of them were prepared for something like that; Toulon was "confident" of its recently bolstered labor force, and so the briefing on ocean currents was left to the proverbial common sense. The convicts themselves cried out in surprise and the pure dread of narrowly avoiding death. Most of them held their footing, others were caught by their neighbors.

Valjean's nervous feet slipped and tumbled him onto his back. The rest was natural consequence: he all but vanished under the vicious crash, the water smothering his unbalanced form. He was not pushed to the shore by the force of it, like the others: the dense weight of the strongman resisted admirably by shoving him onto the supersaturated sand. Yet this form of his, Javert realized, was for once his downfall on three points. One: the surge of water allowed the current to edge toward Valjean's position. Two: being so dense (both in muscle and ignorance), Valjean had no choice under the circumstances but to be dragged toward the center of the earth. Three: the sand on which Valjean was pinned was declining into the sea, as beach sand is wont to do, leaving him to tilt and fall both straight down and southwest, along the slanted line. Into the counterflow from the wave.

Into the undertow.

Javert felt the rope go taut before his overstimulated mind registered what he had seen. The prisoner next to Valjean started to go after him but, thank fate, his neighbor had caught him just before the undertow accepted the suicidal gesture. The swimmers had seen the wave and intelligently retreated to shore, but they (and the guards, and the police...and Javert as well...) had neglected to warn the others of the danger. High tide was unsafe for work, yet they took the risk: it might have worked, if they didn't make the mistake of assuming the landborn of the criminals had "common sense" for the sea. The anchored prisoner was the only one in danger, but nowhere near the only one in trouble.

He planted his feet against a rock next to him, and the assisting prisoners that could find rocks mimicked him. The guards stood beyond the reach of the waves and watched.

Valjean was suffering because of his shortcomings. What a surprise.

Adrenaline shot through his veins and commanded every relevant muscle to pull the heavy man back to shore and to the east. The currents were intent to sweep him to the southwest, where no land obstacle could stop him if the rope broke. Javert tried to take deep breaths as he strained against the relentless currents with exponentially increasing panic, just enough oxygen to keep his mind clear. If he could just pull the oaf close enough to the shallows, then Valjean could plant his feet and save himself.

That was, of course, if the man could manage to get his head above water. Javert had underestimated how much effort was needed to rescue the large man. Not that he was used to such a task, but...that was no excuse. He had a chance to do this right, and he rushed through it in a fit of zeal for progress, but also and more insidiously, in a fit of pride.

Infernal flame licked and engulfed his body with each passing second of struggle, trying desperately to obey his mind, all to no progress. Other prisoners by the pilings had come over to join, filling more of the gap between the strainers and the rock to which the rope was tied. The rope was now overtaut, and that one anchor-rock was the one constant between Valjean and an obscure death in the Mediterranean. And he obviously made no effort to grab the rope and pull himself toward the shore, undoubtedly too panicked to realize that as an option.

"HEAVE! HEAVE, YOU OAFS, HE IS NOT DYING OUT THERE!"

The prisoners tugged harder. Javert untethered the very last of his spirit and used all of his relatively meager strength to heave Valjean away from the undertow. The panic from his brain witnessed the lengthening stretch of time the prisoner spent underwater and overflowed, finally uniting mind and body in a rush of basic instinct. He dimly heard grunting and screaming, but he was not sure from where. Every fiber within him - his arms! his wrists! his neck! his hips! his poor back! his thighs! his everything! - compressed under the inferno, screaming for mercy. He was dying, trying to save a dying man. But the current was still too strong, and Valjean had yet to breech the surface.

_Pull...pull yourself out of there! We can't do anything! If you have any air left in your head,_ pull on the rope!

"THIS ROPE IS STARTING TO BREAK, GIVE IT ALL YOU'VE GOT!", Javert heard from someone among the strugglers.

Valjean was swallowing water by this point, if not before.

"COME ON, PULL! LOOK AT HIM, HE'S SERIOUS!"

Valjean was drowning. And it was all Javert's fault. He should have warned the oaf to plant his feet. Or told him to move north. Or insisted the man stay behind and make himself useful in other ways, _something_. Javert was becoming a slaughterer before his own eyes.

The guards stood beyond the reach of the waves and watched.

The burden on the rescue team was starting to pull them forward, and Javert ignored it in order to replant his feet and focus on pulling back to them. But he soon saw why. Valjean did start pulling himself along the rope, just enough to breech the surface and breathe. Javert only saw his shaved head, but he imagined the terror on his face fading and relief quickly taking its place. Those arms had enough brawn to pull himself to safety!

This would soon be over; everyone just had to keep pulling enough to provide resistance against the current. Valjean would find his footing. Javert almost started to relax...

"JAVERT, THE ROPE!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll upload the next part later today.


	7. Rescue is an Art

The fibers of the once-sturdy rope, until now, were valiantly taking the stress from the strugglers and the current in both directions with negligible consequences. But Valjean's self-reliant efforts had actually made their lot worse, accelerating the breakdown of the bonds. The shallowest ones had broken, and the conclusion was then inevitable. Right in front of everyone, the one fat thread holding both ends together snapped in twain.

Valjean fell forward and submerged into the force of the current again.

_OH?! YOU'LL HAVE TO TRY A LOT HARDER THAN THAT TO MAKE ME QUIT!_

Javert sprinted and grabbed the fleeing end and nearly fell into the sea himself from the force. Nearly. The convict behind him had grabbed him and made a tremendous effort to tug them back to safely, with the others scurrying to do the same.

_"He's gone_ , _"_   Javert heard from somewhere among the guards. He didn't care who said it, they would eat their words.

All of them dug their feet into the wet sand and pulled the human chain back. Obnoxious strength, when put altogether. The backmost convict came forward and tugged the rope toward the bank, allowing the rescue team to secure it and make a second attempt at last. The closer distance allowed the team more concentrated force to pull the man closer to shore...! Javert almost shrieked with relief.

But the situation, he quickly realized, was not yet secure. Valjean was even further from the shore than before, and the rope had already broken once. The undertow would not be less powerful, even though the rescue team's efforts had less distance to cross. Even then, that very rescue team was now vulnerable to getting swept away itself. Valjean only peeked above the water for a short while, meaning the precious little air he took would probably not be enough to last the struggle. Javert remembered the shock of suddenly submerging and how water would rush into the idiotically, involuntarily opening mouth. And Valjean was clearly not making an effort to pull on the rope again...But most of all, Javert was not contributing enough to the brute strength needed to pull. He was not a convict. He was...not even a guard, he was just Javert.

And in what Javert was strongest...for this situation...

It was the stupidest option. It was also the only one he had left, and time was precious.

"KEEP PULLING! I'M GOING IN, I CAN SWIM!"

Several immediate reactions were formed to Javert's words, clashing together so clumsily and harshly that he could only infer the basic message of, assuredly, every single one of them: "YOU WHAT?!"

Sanity be damned. Valjean would not die, not like this, not by his failure to do a simple job.

"WE'VE GOT THE ROPE", yelled Javert's savior. "GO GET HIM, I'VE GOT AN IDEA!"

And that was that. Javert ripped the buttons off the turquoise coat, threw it aside, and sprinted to the diagonalized rope end out in the water. At the end of the shallows, he pounced into a dive that spoke of practiced ease. He barely remembered to take a breath and hold it.

Sea water is murky at times, especially with someone struggling under it and disturbing the swirling elements. But Javert could spot a small child's doll underwater, so he could certainly spot a grown man. The problem was the noise! The fierce dynamics of the water battered his submerged ears, making it absolutely necessary to keep his eyes open, no matter what swam into them. The rest of his uniform was too heavy for comfort, but he had to keep moving toward the rescue without a second wasted, for whatever reason.

He violently stroked through the matter, not letting his overstimulated mind freeze him again. Valjean was right in front of him, slowly abandoning ignorant attempts to stroke and breech the surface. The rescuers were pulling him closer, now that there was less distance between them and their objective. He saw Valjean shift to the east as well, so the prisoners were steering him, using the current to their advantage, _why didn't he think of that, he was so stupid!_ He was stupid because he was panicking; he should never have let this take him by surprise. Yes...yes, the man was within reach, and he wouldn't get pulled into the danger! Javert just had to grab him and push him above the waves...

He saw Valjean meet eyes with him. Javert reached out his hand...

Valjean weakly reached out his own and closed his eyes.

Javert rebounded in the water and used his free hand and legs to shove the water behind and below the two of them. He went with the current's horizontal direction, letting himself get dragged west, while stroking with that untethered spirit to close the distance between them and the sand. No room for doubt or fatigue: his own life as well, not just some queer prisoner's, was forfeit if he didn't put his body through hell.

Valjean was unceasingly dense, though. He only had enough power to keep both of them from sinking, and he didn't save enough air when diving; he was too tense from panic to inhale deeply. But if he rode the current long enough, maybe he could get to the shallows and get above the water--

_...!!!_

Right in front of his eyes. Javert spotted the broken end of the rope, getting tossed in the current with the two of them.

They were done.

His lips pressed tightly shut at the sight, but the undeniable emptiness of despair took prevalence at the sight, irresistibly enveloping his limbs in thick, sluggish exhaustion. Only stubbornness held the last of his strength in play, allowing Javert to stroke desperately for the surface, just trying to keep them above the water as. But it was only a matter of time...

After one last heartfelt struggle, his mouth gasped open and seawater rushed inside.

A harsh rush of memories possessed his attention before he shut his eyes. So many events he had forgotten...messily restored to him without his consent. To live as he had...To be made into a tool by so many people. To be tested to his limits so many times, by the whims of sheer chance. To be found as worthy by the only other man who bothered to seek worth in the world.

To let some criminal crush the proudly-honed mind they had fostered together and doom them both.

To be smart enough to learn the right ways to plan and survive and overcome after so much ignorance, yet dumb enough to abandon them when needed most. To let his legacy be forfeit to something as droll and immemorable as a construction accident. To be born in a lair of filth, only to die in a cauldron of it.

It was fitting, in a way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All I'm going to say is this: trust me.


	8. Noise is a Virtue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you worried for the fate of our dear men...look at the title of the story. How many months have elapsed since the onset?
> 
> Whether you trusted me or not, the cause for worry was extremely slim at best. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go have a tiny laughing fit. And for those of you who caught on to that, uh, go get yerself a cookie or summat. I'm not your self-esteem counselor.
> 
> (You are beautiful by birthright)
> 
> I like how some of you were telling me to write quickly. I actually wrote these parts two weeks ago. But I decided to keep them hidden until I could look over them and edit with a clear head. And thank God I did, yeesh. I clearly wrote some of this in a hurry. Anyway...this story could genuinely diverge here, if you like. Valjean and Javert could have died suddenly and without resolution, as is common for many people's stories. Great heroes fall over cliffs for the stupidest reasons. Villains get injured and administered improper medicine. And all of this happens without more than a passing thought by the general public. Death is an equalizer, not a statement of personal glory, and this lesson is valuable for any student of human behavior.
> 
> Or...if that were not the case, then this is what would have happened next.
> 
> (Profanity ahead)

" _You're batshit crazy, you know that, son?!"_

Jean Valjean violently woke up to two pairs of hands slamming on his chest, followed by that exclamation, and simultaneously his throat gaping to expel what felt like a sewer from his stomach and lungs. He lied upon his right side, aching with the sensation of being mercilessly pummeled and forced to drink until he burst. One expulsion. Two. Three. Air! Blessed, merciful air from the heavens! He drew ragged, painful breaths until his brain was buzzing with oxygen.

He was alive.

He was on the beach again.

Alive. Breathing. Four limbs, two eyes, one furiously beating heart.

Though he could not press his hands together, he closed his eyes for the singlemost sincere prayer of thanks he ever offered to the worthiness of the Lord. He was merciful in the strangest ways, and he was witness to it ever since the arrival of--

!!!

"Ja...Ja..." He couldn't speak yet; he needed to calm his breathing. He was fine, and Javert had to be too. He was fine! He could breathe any old time, so why was he so desperate to hyperventilate?! Everything was just fine, and this all was proof of it!

"..."

Valjean realized the source of his renewed panic. He had no idea how he survived. The last thing he remembered was taking his hand. And they were both drowning.

"..."

_Please. Don't let this be what I think it might be. Don't tell me._

Nothing. Just waves and shuffling chains.

"Ja..."

_If I am here, he is too. You hear me? He had better be here._

"Wh...Is...?"

_Sweet Lord, don't do this to me. That is not an equivalent exchange!_

"'Mer..."

_...Praise the Lamb._

The voice was weak and croaking. But it still resounded! Javert! Valjean's muscles from the chest and downward were beaten and roiling in flames, but he never smiled much at all. Thus the muscles in his face easily stretched to welcome that impossible guard back into his life. Wherever he was...

Where _was_ he? Somewhere close. Where was the boy?! Valjean tried to get up, but the sea had robbed him of vigor as well. Perhaps recognizing this, two pairs of hands pushed him back onto the cloth. Cloth? What cloth? Valjean opened his water-raw eyes and shifted them to the ground, and he found something damp under his neck. It was blue...if it were dry, it would have been a light blue.

Something was biting into his right cheek. Gnawing. Rudely, hungrily eating his flesh with no concern for his own deed to the same flesh. He lifted the imaginary stone entombing his right arm and pulled his hand to the wound. Were he stronger, Valjean would have torn his skin off if that would starve the creature biting him.

"Ah, he moves! Alright, _fine!_ He's alive, we can move on now! For God's sake, we're definitely behind schedule now!"

...That voice. The guard that belittled Javert. Whatever his name was, Valjean was sure that it was undeserved.

His breathing finally slowed enough to speak. But his voice was as weak as Javert's.

"Javert...where is he? He saved me." He couldn't believe it, but it was true. Javert...

"What'd he say? Did someone catch that?"

"AH! NO, HE DIDN'T!" The nameless guard sounded delirious. "He tried to kill himself going in after you! He would have, if these swimmers hadn't decided to do the same and got ridiculously lucky. One of them even got swept away, so we're down one worker now! This is all--"

" _Whudyeshhh?!_ " Valjean shuddered at Javert's voice, overstrained from the effort of speaking loudly and thus barely intelligible. He heard the boy get overtaken by a fit of coughing. Javert...Javert had swallowed seawater as well. That guard was right.

"We lost a prisoner because of you, boy. Don't think there won't be consequences! Just wait and see if you're not back on the streets after--"

Valjean wanted to force his crippled voice to roar in defiance of what could only be a demonic agent...but he found that he had no need of doing so. Voices all around him started shouting:

"YOU WERE RESPONSIBLE, THIS IS ON _YOU!"_

"HE WENT AFTER SOMEONE LIKE US! YOU DON'T DESERVE THE DIRT ON HIS BOOTS!"

"OH, LIKE YOU WERE SO HELPFUL BACK THERE! I FROZE UP, BUT WHAT'S YOUR EXCUSE?!"

"I'D LIKE TO SEE YOU UNDER HIS COMMAND!"

The beach was witness to a verbal riot, and Valjean's head ached even more than his chest with the wonder. Some of those voices...Javert was being defended by convict and guard alike. Of course he was! His valor was clear to see, who wouldn't recognize it?! Faith...bright, cleansing faith rippled through him at the revelation. Dear Lord, this day was His, it could mean nothing else.

But then Valjean was quickly brought back to reality by some of the prisoners' yells...

"I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU DIDN'T LET ME PEE ON HIM!"

"WHAT?!"

"HE WAS UNCONSCIOUS, AND HE'S GONNA BATHE, WHAT'S THE PROBLEM?!"

"I DON'T BELIEVE--ARE YOU SERIOUS?!"

_God help me, I know that voice. He's three cells or so down from mine._

"WHERE THE FUCK IS MACKENZIE ZALES?!"

"WHAT?! MARQUIS DE SALES?! YOU ALWAYS SAY THE WEIRDEST SHIT!"

"HOW DARE HE!"

*THUD THUD THUD THUD THUD*

"WHAT?! PRISONER 32491 WAS SUPPOSED TO BE WATCHING THE PILINGS!"

_That one...I heard he was rejected from an asylum because he made the visiting bourgeoisie too uncomfortable. I wonder if that's true?_

No matter. He wanted to see Javert. He wanted to see the boy that just might repair his heart as this was happening. He wanted today to beget a tomorrow, and a day after so and forevermore, where his guard's heroism would never be forgotten. And the swimmers, too! And the role pullers, everyone! Today was too important to die!

"Javert..."

"Huh? _Oh..._ He's beside you."

Valjean rolled - slowly, achingly, but definitely - onto his left side. Oh, the sight! Javert was weak, breathing just as raggedly as he was. He was being watched over by five naked men, the swimmers that saved both of them. They were far on the other side of the few installed pilings; they must have drifted very far to the east. The boy's - no, the man's - eyes were red and wide with confusion and shock.

"Vljn. Ah klld amen. Ah klld amen...!"

Valjean only understood one part. That name again...that horrifyingly familiar name. He almost hated Javert for saying it, for teasing him with what was long since lost. But it was still a name.

"Javert, I--"

"ENOUGH!"

A whip cracked in the air, instantaneously hushing the din of discontent. Actually, Valjean puzzled as to why the man hadn't done it once the shouting started. Perhaps the fool was in sheer disbelief...?

"All of you know the rules! Javert will be punished for his reckless endangerment of the slaves, and the rest of you will GET BACK TO WORK!"

"And as for yourself, Fougere?"

Valjean's thoughts stopped before they could even start. This voice was new. It was powerful, it was angry, but most importantly it was new. The swimmers did not move from Javert's side, and Valjean confidently guessed that no one else moved either, despite the clinking metal of chains in the distance.

"Monsieur Thierry, you didn't have to--"

"The Chief of Police of Marseille kindly informed me of this little disaster. You allowed one of your subordinates to risk his own life, and you neglected to warn everyone of the danger of a staggering wave. I afraid I will have--"

"They know better! These...Monsieur Thierry, anyone with--"

"Never interrupt me again."

The beach was completely silent.

"Javert, even though he acted foolishly, did indeed act today, unlike his immediate superior. You lost your temper with our Cric, while Javert made a solution. You saw him go after that man, and you did nothing to stop him. You are clearly unfit to handle a crisis situation, to the point of even encouraging them by sheer negligence."

Valjean knew he was not being addressed, but a shudder of guilt still ran through him from sheer proximity to the man's disappointment. Then again...he had cause to feel guilty himself. He should have known better than to think he could overcome what he did not understand.

"With the proper instruction, I feel Javert's presence of mind would serve him well as deputy adjutant, down the line. Meanwhile...you are dismissed from our division for this gross endangerment of personnel, effective immediately. You may collect the last of your pay and stay in your accommodation until we return to Toulon. Afterward, you may attempt to prove your worth to me if you wish to maintain any position, purely because of the need for staff. Do not object!...your failure speaks for itself, and I would rather you not make a fool out of our entire division more than you already have."

Thierry, although more merciful than he should have been, managed to deliver this with the coldness of the judge and jury that threw a hungry uncle and his sister's family into Hell. The guard named Fougere, from what Valjean could see, had the same kind of face he had seen in many of his fellow convicts just before getting whipped. The face that says 'Just one slip, and your brains will fall out by my hands'. But Fougere was not looking at Adjutant Guard Thierry.

"...Monsieur Gabreau, I am dreadfully sorry for this. I believed we could handle a new project, but clearly we cannot. Toulon has failed its sister city."

Valjean made to sit as well as he could. As much as his body was weighed with exhaustion and distress, it managed to stiffly yield to his command. He saw Javert do the same, with slightly less difficulty. Two of the swimmers moved to support Javert's back, and the sight of that alone gave him the strength to stay upright as he listened.

They also gave a short glare to him. Valjean blanched as he decoded the words behind the faces: This is all your fault. But Javert seemed to notice it and batted them away from himself with an indignant face. Valjean understood why, and the clarity and speed of that understanding imbued him with a disorientingly happy thrill: Javert wanted to support his own weight. The swimmers merely moved backward, and as they did so, nearby guards used their cudgels to herd them toward the forming line of convicts.

"Marseille is also to blame," rebutted the mayor after a pause. "We need this project done quickly, and yet we stood idly while your guard endangered himself. Toulon has earned a second chance due to her humility and our own negligence. You shall wait for low tide on every pier, even though this may put us past the deadline."

"...Thrry, Ah klld amen."

"Get him water! And slaves, fall back to Marseille!"

The chain gang lifelessly allowed itself to be corralled by the police, marching toward the cells to wait until work could continue. They moved as one unit, as if no gap had just been formed in (presumably) the last few minutes. Valjean had moved to join them out of habit, but the adjutant guard pushed him back down on Javert's coat. Yes, it was Javert's. That explained why he was topless. But...why not just hand it off to get cleaned or something?

The man leaned in to, of all things, whisper flatly in his ear: "I need a word with you once he is secured."

Jean Valjean found no desirable response to be made, and the man's tone implied to him that no response was desired.

One of the Marseille gendarmes walked briskly toward him and Javert, and a stout bottle was offered to the latter. Javert waved it off with baffling impatience and weakly pointed to him instead.

"For God's sake, Javert, take the bottle!", insisted Thierry with clear and justified worry.

Javert angrily insisted on Valjean taking it instead, without a single spoken word.

"...You will be the death of me, boy. Quench the slave."

The gendarme seemed as bewildered and irritated as Valjean felt. He saw the fairly young man threaten to pour it all over him, and to be honest, Valjean was grateful and ready to drink the water as it cascaded. But Javert made a mostly unintelligible noise, the only human quality to it being the negative category, and a glare of what could only be a warning. The man grumbled ("...if not a swindler, then an embarrassment...") as he handed the bottle to him, and Valjean's previous hesitance melted at the sight of the clean, cool water. He drank it greedily, savoring the sensation of every inch of his mouth and throat swelling with new life.

But thankfully, a second bottle was offered to Javert, and the heroic man did not refuse this one. Valjean watched as he drank, feeling not unlike an explorer watching a tiger lap at an oasis. But to be fair, he had no idea what that would be like.

As soon as Javert was finished, he turned to face the grey-haired man: "It's my fault he almost died. He drank first because of this."

"...Javert, the fault of yours here is forfeiting your life for a _fool's_ errand." Thierry spoke with gravity and quiet rage, clearly meaning to say this for the whole while. "You should have let him drown. If those _merfolk_ had been a split second too soon, both of you would have been lost. That display was not justice, I don't care what you thought I taught you!"

"I beg your pardon, monseigneur. I let my emotion overtake me again. I'll work to set rights to the death of that prisoner and further hone my thoughts, if ever--"

"Your thoughts! _What pretty thoughts they were!_ IF THIS WAS THE RESULT OF YOU 'THINKING', THEN I FORBID YOU TO 'THINK' EVER AGAIN!"

Javert was cowed. And so was Valjean.

"...And stop calling me that. If you can stand, then go with Marseille. You are done for the day."

"...I killed--"

"You have killed no one. Thankfully."

"But--"

"You will obey me. And you know you will. Do not delay the inevitable."

"..."

Javert the baffling guard made to stand, assisted by the second gendarme that offered water. Valjean watched him pad stiffly toward the stairs, but only until Thierry decided both of them were out of earshot. He was witness to a truly horrible face, contorted with cold contempt and a touch of...something. That horrifying something, he didn't know what! But he had seen it before, and it made the face even worse.

"He favors you. God knows why, he decided you were 'unique', let's put it that way. All I see is a sopping wet brute."

Valjean said nothing, but blood rushed to his cheeks. For Javert's own superordinate to say that...so it was true after all! He knew it! He knew it from the moment that medicine touched his back!

"Were the time right and the laws permitting, I would happily make Javert the King of France. But neither are true. Although he has had to age far past his years, he is still a child."

Valjean started as the elderly man grabbed his chin between his thumb and forefinger.

"You, on the other hand, are comparatively still in the womb."

Now he remembered the 'something' in his face. It was the desperate worry of a father protecting his daughter from a suitor. So this was the man! Yes, both he and Javet had light blue eyes. They shone with divine fury, and Valjean was 'humbled' to witness it.

"You would do well to remember this. He is immature, and you are unworthy. I don't care how you feel about him, or how 'honest' you are. If he comes to harm because of you, then make no mistake, _I will drown you and tell your sister it was an accident._ "

Valjean whimpered. He actually whimpered for the first time in his life. Thierry released him.

"Good answer. Get up."

Jean Valjean obeyed without complaint. Thierry led him toward the entryway that led to the streets of Marseille, without a single chain to bind him. Instead, the man's proud posture drew attention to the man's eyes even from behind, impressing their judgment in a perfect imitation of human conversation. Valjean found himself looking forward to low tide, simply to avoid this man and all he exuded.

As they walked together in silence, his mind involuntarily summoned ways to break the tension. Stupid, most of them. Most...there was one he found that surprisingly pressing for him to present. 

"He deserves that promotion," Valjean dared to say.

Thierry stopped and, unfortunately, turned to face Valjean. His expression was unreadable, and Valjean suspected that was deliberately so.

"Even when he is ready for it, he will not accept it. You've seen it, I'm sure. He repels affection in favor of instruction, especially if he feels guilty. This day will haunt him. To make matters worse, he is stubborn, and he has had to be! I do what I can, but now I have to justify myself to a common thief of all...! That boy is too suggestible for his own good. I pray he gets wiser discretion soon."

Something flared within Valjean at Thierry's words. Indignance, perhaps, or a by-product of his eventual possession of the boy. But his heart had somehow grown in the past weeks, beating strong enough to allow him the spirit to respond:

"So you accept that he is 'fond' of me, that he finds me 'unique'?"

"The evidence is clear. I have never seen him take so much interest in another person, let alone a criminal."

"I meant--"

" _I know what you meant._ And love between men is a lost art, one that will be resurrected one day. France will realize its superiority to conventional love, with the right men."

Forcing himself to ignore the last part, Valjean continued:

"...Then what is the trouble? Is his affection so unthinkable? Or mine? Are we so worthless in your eyes that--"

"SILENCE."

Valjean barely had time to brace himself before an unrestrained, gloved slap battered his left cheek. His entire body ached with the force upon his face.

"Javert is too soft on you. Men like you have no right to speak so crassly to men like me or him. You took the easy way out."

...Valjean feared the father's expression, and so he disallowed himself the opportunity to parse the strange statement. And some of the other things he said...Both of them turned a corner and continued to walk to the police station, shielding their eyes against the still-rising sun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mackenzie Zales? Now that's not a French name! Maybe some Polish-Irish mutt got into trouble around the French border or something...oh, I love a good mystery!


	9. Hope, Perhaps?

 

Jean Valjean sat in his own, private cell. In Toulon, he managed to get his own because the guards forced him into one, in order to "keep him from conspiring again". He was told that, this time, he was held here prevent any contagion that swam into his open cheek from spreading to the other prisoners. But he suspected a third, truest reason: M. Thierry was keeping him away from his son. And indeed, Javert was nowhere for him to find all through the day. After today, he felt that was a wise decision.

Low tide had arrived, and work with it. Jean Valjean forced himself to trudge with the others, but he had never had his resentment tinged with this prickling anxiety. He was being assessed, not just subjugated. Thierry had not drowned him yet, and so he still had a chance. He needed to make a good impression. But as Valjean was merely working harder than usual, he found that he was flexing more when he lifted the last pilings and even when hammering the planks, making a show of the bulk he had slowly acquired in the Bagne. Once he realized this...he started doing it intentionally. Not quite ostentatious, but definitely shameless. Guards and prisoners would look at him oddly, and he actually didn't care. Javert desired him! Jean Valjean, the man who had no time for love in Faverolles, was flaunting for a boy who wasn't even there!

But amazingly, that was a far away memory already, pushed behind the indefineable Now by sheer emotion.

Faintly, so faintly, he heard the dirge from beyond the door. His lips moved with it. The melody was no longer muted or sterile, no, it was laden with the grief born from perpetual misery. They had lost another one, and in circumstances that broke the mold thrice over and twice lengthwise. Whatever the man did, whatever he didn't do, whether he was falsely accused or a vicious demon, no one really knew. Whispers of a failed business hovered here and there in the air, but so did whispers of devoured women, and a destitute family, and a quiet disposition. The silence between each whisper spoke the truth: none of these suppositions could make any difference anymore. The man had died, and the mystery, for men like them, would forever remain unsolved. Valjean's fatigue-born zeal for preserving the heroism for that day faded with each note, eventually replaced with the moment he thought 'They can all drown' on repeat.

He was hesitant to lie down, in case he had to sit up again to pass more salt water from his system. He thought he had vomited it all, but he was proven wrong. At the very least, he knew that he was not passing blood, and that was excellent. Tonight would fade into tomorrow like all the others, as it had to be, as it always would be. Death and life ate and fed each other, and water simply kept flowing.

...When did philosophy become so appealing to him? This month had been absolutely crazy.

The dirge had stopped. Thanks heavens: now Valjean could get some sleep. But a minute or so after he decided this, the soft clapping of boots on stone kept him from dreaming. Tried as he did, the clapping got louder, so the boots were closer. It was terribly noisy. Why would anyone be walking around late at night--

Wait.

*Click*

"...Javert?!"

And it was. The impossible guard had come into his cell for a second time, albeit in a different city and a different prison. But those criteria demand different classification. So truthfully, this was the first time. But Jean Valjean prayed that it would not be anywhere near the last time. Or if it were...then only because no cell would be holding him anymore.

"Hush." The voice was calm, but the body was not. Javert was trembling. He, he was still weak! What else could it be? But he instantly agreed to the contract of whispers for all speech.

"You...you should be resting."

"I am fine."

Javert walked over to the filth bucket, picked it up, and walked back outside the door. Valjean sat perfectly still, completely at a loss for what to think. Some time later, Javert returned with the empty bucket, still shaking, and took a seat beside him on the, of course, plank.

Valjean never realized how tall the boy was until he was unexpectedly getting rope tied around his waist. And even as Javert was sitting (albeit ramrod straight) next to Valjean, Javert had three or four inches on him.

Javert said nothing as he sat beside Valjean. Right beside him. Valjean could smell him. Valjean was inches away from...touching him, feeling his clothes and the warmth of his skin. His clothes, though: the uniform of Marseilles. The police had taken pity on him, and Javert...

_He rejects affection in favor of instruction, especially when he feels guilty._

He must have been ordered to wear it. Valjean suspected that he would have spent his own money for a new shirt otherwise. Or even walked around--

Valjean wished he could cross his legs.

" _You_ should be resting," answered Javert. "But I see that you are not! Now I'll be worried for your health tomorrow."

"Don't worry about me," Valjean insisted, almost automatically. His mouth moved before his spirit sang, but the melody complimented the muscle all the same. Javert was being silly.

Hmm...silly Javert! The thought should have annoyed him, but at least in this moment, it was a warm, welcome thought. Silly Javert. Dedicated Javert. Self-sacrificing Javert, even if for the wrong reasons. These versions of the guard, Valjean wanted all of them. Yes. He was hungry to learn, eager to accommodate and nurture this man into what he was undoubtedly racing to become. Salvation.

Javert bowed his head, and Valjean couldn't see his eyes anymore. Only those bushy eyebrows.

"I am powerless to correct this...you almost died because I didn't warn you about the wave. You're from Picardy, you're not used to wave dynamics. I should have paid more attention."

"...That's gone and past," offered Valjean uncertainly.

"You are serving a sentence for your crime, not for the mistakes of your wardens; that was never part of the deal. Even...even trying to make up for it, I forfeited myself, and that man was ordered to try and..."

Valjean watched Javert take a deep breath. No other thoughts or words or actions penetrated the silence around them: just inhalation and exhalation.

Except for one thought that intruded in the latter half of the silence. Ordered? That wasn't the impression Valjean got. Especially not with how the swimmers huddled around Javert.

"Criminal or not, he was not condemned to drowning. That was not acceptable. I should have been the one dismissed."

Valjean was completely nonplussed at this misguided confession...until he heard the last declaration. Now he was delirious. Javert was...! Javert!

"I...Javert, I lost my footing, it was a complete accident!" His voice was breaking. "And swimming in the sea is dangerous anyway! This is not your fault! Don't _punish_ yourself! How can you even...?! I can't...! _Javert!_ "

What else could he say?! He was ready to repeat the boy's name, as if it were a mantra to ward off despair. Words had fallen from his mind, landing somewhere in the filth bucket with the rest of the dirty water. But he had to try.

"...You tethered me. You protected me. And, uh..." Javert seemed robbed of speech, merely looking to him in helpless attention. "That is...the guards! Yes, they were ready to have me drown, or something equally wicked." His chest swelled with horrible, desperate emotion. "But you weren't having any of it. You had me work, and I hated that, but you kept me safe. You called my name, _my own name, I had forgotten it!_ I mean, the sound of it. You gave me a name, and you gave me a rope to keep me tethered to land. It...that rope let you go after me...when I was giving up, I saw you...you were beautiful. You were stupid! dying to save a dying man. And, yes, I'm sure you did this, you kept us afloat until we were rescued."

Jean Valjean could not see anymore. His eyes were drowning in yet more salt water. How could this be? It wasn't...was it? It was all for him...? Oh! He stayed in disbelief the entire day, and now this hope shone so brightly as to blind him. Yes, that terrifyingly beautiful hope!  Javert risked his life for someone like him!!

And he should never, ever do so again!

"...Your name is your name. It-It makes no difference if I call it or not."

" _Javert...! JAVERT! How are you?! Where did you come from?!_ You saved me. When I was barely human, you called me honest. You healed me when I was wrongly hurt. And now...now I just want to shackle you to the room so you won't pull this shit again. Stop saving me, I am not worth your life. Just stay alive, oh God, oh sweetest mercy, _I need you alive!!_ "

He tried to close his lips, clamping his jaw, anything to stifle the pathetic guttural noises that were welling in his throat. But he failed. For far better reasons than ever before, Jean Valjean started sobbing. He heaved in the throes of it like a babe, but he felt like a helpless parent. He wanted to coddle Javert, to secure him in the apelike arms he had grown and rock him, if it would keep the boy from killing himself from sheer immaturity. The flesh of Javert was worth more than gold, yes, he realized this in a rush of passion. He wanted to touch him, to feel the phantom finally incarnated after what suddenly felt like far too long.

"...You need me alive."

Valjean nodded weakly, still enthralled to the cascade of tears.

"I don't understand."

_He doesn't understand. Dear Lord, if I am still in your sights, please give me strength. I am starting to understand._ Valjean turned to face the dear boy. _I know what he doesn't, and I can explain it to him. Guide him. I can steal him from these thieves and put him back where he belongs. Yes...he needs me. And...!!_

"I need you."

Surrender.

What else could describe it? His body already ached. His heart already pounded. His brains already churned with effort, trying to keep up with the mystery slowly unraveling in front of his eyes. This one admission, this harsh and bright shift in the paradigm, it made only a subtle superficial change for Javert to witness. 'Surrender' described all phenomena, and perhaps this description was all that was necessary. Javert, of all the guards, made Jean Valjean submissive.

Javert was torturing him.

"I'm sorry..."

_Don't be! Never be! Stop that, it hurts! You're so stupid, and it hurts to see what it does to you!_

"Why?! Why, Javert, why are you sorry?!"

_I'll fix you, I swear, but please, please be reasonable!_

"I..." Javert's voice broke this time. "You're so convinced. You're honest, yes, and you're committed to this. But I'm not a clever person. I haven't seen this before, and it scares me. What are you trying to say?!"

_...ENOUGH._

"Unshackle me."

"What?!"

"The shackles on my arms. Open them, but leave the legs closed. I will show you what I mean."

Javert was trembling.

Slowly, with clear trepidation, Javert pulled out a key from his coat pocket. Valjean knew they gave him keys, how else could he have gotten in the room? Thierry must have had mercy on his poor, stupid son, or Javert was sneakier than he looked. Javert twisted the key in the right arm shackle. It came loose, and Valjean had to keep it to his side with great concentration. Javert stood up and walked over to his left side. The left shackle came undone. Not allowing any second thoughts, Jean Valjean picked up Javert and set him into his lap. He pulled the seated boy into a full, unrestrained embrace, burying his face in the dark blue fabric covering his left shoulder.

"I need you."

He wanted to die. He wanted this to be the very last thing he did and saw, to have it imprinted on his soul as he ascended to heaven or fell to hell. He didn't want tomorrow to have him miserable again, not when this delirious, overflowing bliss was bathing him in warmth and hope. He wanted out of this bondage now, to escape with Javert right now, and this was the only consolation he had for having to wait even longer.

Javert smelled wonderful. Soap and fresh water, fleeing from skin and cloth to slowly purge his own struggle-born filth. Javert was cleansing him, and Jean Valjean would teach the lad in return. Lessons of true justice, of forgiveness, of the wonders of intimacy.

Intimacy...

Jean placed a soft kiss on the nape of Javert's neck.

And then another. Javert said nothing, so he placed a third and a fourth.

"W-What, a-ah, stop it..."

A fifth.

"You...say you need me."

The sixth was firmly upon the Adam's Apple, dotted with scruff from the boy's facial hair. Two weeks ago, Valjean saw small whiskers starting to dot Javert's face. He had liked the misguided attempt to look intimidating, especially as the hair grew longer and it was no longer misguided. His lips played with a few stray hairs, before placing a seventh on the furry chin.

"I-Is this what you meant?"

_Javert...stiff, unromantic Javert. Your father ruined you. But I will rebuild you._

His arms slowly traveled and squeezed along Javert's thin frame. Jean thought he was scrawny and underfed, and perhaps he was on the second count, but he discovered this boy was not skin and bones. The toned muscles of a strong swimmer, not unlike those of the rescuers earlier that day, pushed back against his hands. But relaxed muscle wasn't this resistant, as he knew very well. He pressed and dug into the flesh, adding a flick of his tongue to the roaming lips every now and then, until this stiff back began to mold and yield to him. And then the stomach. And then the chest. Javert was relaxing.

Javert was breathing short and fast, trying to stifle heaves similar to sobbing. Poor lad. So nervous, surprisingly innocent, it had to be his first encounter. It was Jean's as well, but he had long since lost his innocence. No, Jean was drunk on the power he held over Javert now. He trembled, yes, but he reveled in the inevitability of this night. Inevitable...! But wait. If he were to keep Javert from running away, he had to yield as well. To yield...to commit such a sin, so soon, even though it was a convenient time. The Mediterranean had 'cleaned' him. To spread his legs...

For Javert. Yes. For this strange guard, he would gladly present himself. Ah! _This_ was happening, of all things! Jean Valjean would flaunt and present in the same day...he was sexualized. He felt Javert jerking his hips in his lap, in his _lap_ , right where he wanted him.

He snaked a hand under the jacket and pawed at Javert's chest. Good gracious, the man was hairy. He decadently played with the thick curls and pressed against the pectoral flesh, touching more intently than his left hand still on the back. In this perspective, Javert seemed more than a little masculine to him.

"You know...Sieur Thierry told me you were immature. That you were still a child."

_Twisting words. Devious._

"That can be amended."

_Shameless._

His groin twitched, making his fully swollen prick bob against the brown, ragged trousers he was made to wear. And Javert shuddered! That must have been a far greater twitch.

"...I, ah..."

Hm?

Javert looked, completely red-faced, to the crotch.

Jean followed his gaze, and...the fastening on the uniform trousers had come undone - _he really is gifted...oh, God, it literally broke through_ \- displaying a quickly staining (doubtlessly State-issue) undergarment. Ah...it was _that_ type of shudder. Jean had failed to fully recognize that this was Javert's _first_ encounter.

"You are young," he consoled, placing a kiss on Javert's forehead. "Give it some time, and you will be ready again." His fevered mind compelled him to take Javert's idle hands and place them on his rump. The boy did not move once they were full of Jean's flesh, but the sensation...slender hands groping such a private place...his buttocks quivered in unison with another twitch of the groin, and a jolt ran up his spine. He looked to Javert's crotch again.

_It's him...yes, for him, I would gladly do whatever he wished._

"I-I will be ready?"

"Yes," replied Jean with a huskiness that surprised himself.

"...To do what?"

"To become a man."


	10. Too Little, Too Soon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally uploading this! I may go back over it: I'm in a hurry right now. Enjoy!

Javert instantly pulled his hands off of Jean and started squirming, seemingly robbed of speech. As soon as Jean registered the sight, he wondered why he expected anything different.

... _DAMMIT, I DID IT AGAIN._

He dropped his hands to let Javert get away from the tantalizing contact. Javert quickly fastened his trousers with trembling hands, walked impatiently to the door, came back, shackled Valjean's arms, and went back out the door. Too much, too soon. For both of them. Now Jean Valjean had to awkwardly arrange his hands so he could ease his strain into the bucket. A few minutes later, the strain was replaced with euphoria. Not even seconds after that, the euphoria was replaced with lucidity.

_...Wait. 'I need you.' I said that, even believed it._

Jean sighed and let his filthy hands fall onto his lead-heavy legs.

_Good grief, why do I let myself forget where I am?_

_He wasn't doing this just for me. He's a fucking guard; he shackled me as he left. He goes by some...some weird personal code. I don't need him...I'm a goddamn liar. I need his diligence for justice, I need his assistance, and I don't need his recklessness._

"He saved my life."

_He's special, but he's not loyal to me. Maybe he'll come around to it later, but there's no guarantee of that. I'm on my own for this escape until I...ugh. I need to repay the favor somehow. Maybe if I do that, that'll make him come around. But how the hell would I...? I would do it, I already feel ready to act at the thought of it, but..._

"He regrets the death of a convict."

_That's only because he felt responsible. As soon as I corrected him, he made no other mention of it._

"Everyone gets carried away..."

Jean Valjean took a deep breath and swallowed his pooling saliva. It was unarguable that he drank more water in that day than any other! But he was still thirsty.

_I was getting carried away, that's so typical of me. Too much, too soon indeed; that boy steals my brain. He'll help me escape one day, but not if I smother him._

Now matter how much he drank, he was still thirsty: the chains felt heavier at just the thought, that was just like them to do, even metal abhorred him. No matter how much he drank, he was still thirsty. What a cruel metaphor for this existence. Not even a metaphor, but a summary. The smallest glimmer of hope was buried under a turquoise uniform, and he grabbed for it like a babe for a teat. No matter how much he drank--

Valjean snorted. What a disgusting thought! He started laughing as softly as he could manage, trying not to upset his throat again. He wasn't that depraved! His mind was still hale enough to remember decency! Now _that_ was hilarious!

“Javert would certainly think so. Just like the rest of them. What tools, and I got the youngest one to use, haha!”

Still, the night was hardly a loss, Valjean decided. Javert, weird as he was, probably decided he could go without that sort of contact for all his life, judging from the way he carried himself. But that begged an important question...Valjean felt empty at the answer, until he pressed his skin-warm lips together and had to grin.

"Better than too little, too late."

* * *

 

_Six instead of seven. I don't even know which one. Jeanne...all I can do is hope the rest survive. I was so bitter about them, so desperate to get away from them, and now look at me. Which one is dead because of me? My dear sister, I'm so sorry._

* * *

 

Javert had insisted on sleeping in the prison offices for that night instead of the accommodations Marseille offered, if only so he could make sure that Valjean didn't...er, that none of the prisoners got any ideas to try and break out of their temporary accommodations. Thierry was exasperated, but Javert couldn't separate himself from his work at this critical period. He decided to say that he wasn't used to beds from the lifestyle he had led, which was true, and that defeated the worrisome man.

_...Just what in any hell happened today?_

He really was 'batshit crazy' today. Something in him could not tolerate the guilt of Valjean dying from his negligence, something so volatile that it exploded and pushed him to disregard himself. He even believed it was justified until his mentor brought him back to reality. He intended to go to the cell in order to explain that he would never do something like that again, but then he saw the filth bucket, and he saw the man's surprise...

_That prisoner's death was not my fault. If both Thierry and the convict leader believe it, then it must be true._

But what actually happened! The convict, _the prisoner,_ tried to soothe him. Damn the bastard to the deepest hell, he stole Javert's brain as a second heist. Comfort from a common thief, and convincing comfort at that. He was so sincere...but that made no sense. And then...all that touching, those words...

He pulled his ruined underwear off and started to wash them, taking a rag and some water from the drinking bowl. Absolutely disgraceful, no self-control.

Something didn't wash about the man, he knew that already. But this had gone too far. He needed to learn Valjean's angle before lowtide tomorrow. The thief was after something, a third heist.

_My virginity._

No, that was absurd. He could have subjugated any convict he wanted for pleasure, and honestly, he didn't care if that was what happened. It was just their nature. And if he wanted to claim a guard...well, h-he would have tried two weeks ago.

_My respect._

That made no sense either. If Javert respected the man, then he would have said so. Not to mention, that would never happen from a guard to a criminal. Valjean had no reason to place hopes on 'respect' of all things.

_My cooperation._

...Hmm!

This was likely. Yes, Valjean would use tactics like comfort and seduction if he could, to pull a guard into a plan. An escape plan. So that was it! Valjean wanted to use him. The harmony of sound logic flooded Javert with relief. At last, the convict made sense to him, just another demon with some excess charm.

_How dare he._

*Thud*

"Hm? Ah, the finance report fell."

Valjean cried quite a bit, so he must be able to do it on command. Javert could handle that. And to think, Javert was so pliable in his hands. Literally...ugh. He knew the truth now, and that was all that mattered.

_But he misses his family._

"...That must be part of the charm. Making me question him and learn about him."

_What are the odds of that?_

"Convicts use whatever chances they can get. It's their way."

_What is a convict, then?_

"..."

Javert held the wet undergarment in his hand. He looked around him. A prison office, not a cell. He almost staggered at the sudden realization. Over the years, and especially in these four months, his perspective on the limbo of criminalhood had changed. He had gone from resentful, to spiteful, to silently vengeful, to intellectual, to contemptuous, to superior, to custodial, to investigatory, to (misguidedly) heedless and easily misled, to observational, and finally to practical. Thierry had guided him from honest work to greater purpose, making use of himself for society. In that process, Javert had unwittingly been molded by his own hands into different shapes. He assumed so many roles as an informant, and he enjoyed the acting, but _this_ role was not intentionally performed.

After all this time, he was still on the other side of the bars; but he had only just started thinking as if he were. He was actually here, he was actually a guard.

...And guards had power over convicts. Valjean had hidden evidence of conspiracy, and Javert was forced to admit his attraction to the man, as disgusting as it was. But Javert was still in control, and he could subdue the convict leader in whatever way was necessary. There were a few guards that liked to make use of the prisoners: he could be one of those and still fit his role perfectly well. He would kill the conspiracy himself. His cock became plump with blood again, and a pleasant light-headedness eased his lips into a grin.

_Very well, Jean Valjean! I accept your challenge._

Javert laid the wet underwear in a pewter bowl beneath the desk, reached for the pile of spare clothes he had brought with him, and donned a clean pair before he lost the will to abstain from masturbation. Very tempting. Would that mean with Valjean...? No. He knew the name of the game now. He could handle himself, no matter how much the man stroked him or sobbed for pity. And in fact...if Valjean were so miserable without his family, he should have considered this before stealing in the first place. Disgusting, even honest emotions were quelled by that lazy instinct of theirs. In due time, Valjean would finally turn under the influence of criminalhood and forget his family, and Javert would watch over the true demon responsibly. He would become an police spy with pride!

_I already made a man out of myself, thief. I won the title through toil and perseverance, and I need not justify it for anyone. But I am perfectly willing to make a woman out of you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know a lot of my work is smutty, but this is going to be more complicated than that XD

**Author's Note:**

> Please let me know what you think, good or bad!


End file.
